


Fairytales Don't Always Have Happy Endings

by soyforramen



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Fairytale Motifs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyforramen/pseuds/soyforramen
Summary: Set after the events of 1x06 - Polly escapes from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy only to met a strange man in the woods.





	Fairytales Don't Always Have Happy Endings

When she was a child, Polly’s favorite stories had all been fairytales. She’d beg her parents to read the same stories over and over - Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, The Swan Princess - any story where the Princess was saved by the daring heroics of her Prince. In those stories, all obstacles overcome by the power of their love. Long after the story was over and the lights went out, Polly replayed their loving reunions over and over in her head as their professions of love and devotion lulled her to sleep. 

She wanted nothing more than to be a princess locked away in a tower, far away from Riverdale. But Polly wouldn’t despair like the princesses in her favorite stories, because she knew that her beloved was on his way rescue her. Even as she outgrew the unicorns and mermaids, Polly waited on her own fairytale ending. Because she just knew she had a prince out there waiting to swoop in on his white horse to rescue her from her overbearing mother and distant father. Her prince would be the one to bring peace to their arguments. He would be the one to save her from her normal, boring life.

And during her third year of high school, she thought she’d finally found him outside of Moose’s house party, sitting quietly by the pool. Her thoughtful, protective, handsome Jason. He loved her enough to run away from his parents . Away from money, power, and the Blossom name. All to be with her.

At first theirs was a romance plucked out of a fairytale. They were so deeply in love. All their free time was spent with each other. They talked about their future together, how they’d have their own little house with a white picket fence, a garden, and a breakfast nook. Even when she told him about the pretty pink cross that day in late spring, things were perfect.

That is, until her mother found the pretty pink cross. Polly was swept away to a fortress in a far, far away land by the evil witch her mother had brought in. The fortress was guarded by women who spewed fire and brimstone when they spoke, a dungeon hidden away from the outside world. 

Her story held all the ingredients of a proper fairy tale, and every day the princess prayed that her red-haired, kindly prince would come rescue her from the stone fortress hidden away in the woods. 

Weeks passed, then months. And still she waited.

Until one day, a messenger in blue and gold came and told the princess that her prince couldn’t come save her. He was dead, tragically murdered, his body thrown in the river to rot. The princess spent all that day mourning the loss of her beloved prince so deeply even the first movements of their child weren’t enough to pull her out of her grief.

Jason wasn’t going to save her from her prison so deep in the woods. And Betty couldn’t save her from the fortress’s high walls. If Polly wanted a chance at freedom, a chance to keep her baby, to keep Jason’s baby, she realized that she’d have to forget all about fairytales and save herself.

It was a hard lesson to learn, but life wasn’t like it was in fairytales. Strangers didn’t want to help you. There was no such thing as a magical fairy godmother. And princesses weren’t locked up to keep them safe from the evils of the world. They were locked up with them in a place the Grimm brothers hadn’t yet discovered.

Her eyes tired and sore from crying all day, Polly forced herself to sit up from the hard spring bed. Night had long since fallen, the clouds above cracking and spitting with an oncoming storm. She pulled her red sweater tight around her and tried to garner any small bit of hope that hadn’t been dashed by the news of Jason’s death. Her mother had known for months that Jason was dead, and not once in all her visits had she mentioned him. The betrayal of it was physical now that her heart was shattered not once, but twice.

Polly looked at her reflection in the window. Her eyes were red, her face puffy. She was almost surprised her chest hadn’t caved in now that the pieces of her heart lay atop her unborn child. Whatever came of this, Polly prayed her heartbreak wouldn’t be absorbed by her child. She couldn’t ever hurt them. Not like her mother had hurt her.

In the halls outside, the nurse came round on her last bed-check, the lights falling dark in her wake. Polly held her breath and listened as Sister Mary Catherine’s footfalls faded into nothing. She counted to a hundred after that before she let herself slowly stand and walk to the only furniture besides the bed that was allowed in the room. 

She ran her hands along the top of the old pine chair. It was heavy in her hands as she hefted it off the floor. Polly gathered all the pain and anger she’d been forced to swallow down since she’d arrived and hurled the chair towards the window. It hit the window and left a faint spider web behind as it clattered to the ground.

Polly waited with bated breath. She strained her ears as she listened for footfalls outside. Once more she counted to a hundred. Once more she threw the chair at the window. The spiderwebs grew, drops of water glistening with the faint courtyard lights. Once more, and the window shattered into the courtyard below.

Before she lost her nerve, Polly threw herself out of the window. A sharp, sudden pain cut through her shin as she fell to the earth below. At the last second she remembered the rose bushes below and ducked her head into her arms.

A klaxon began it’s lonely howl, barely audible beneath the rolling thunder. Lights flickered on in the buildings that surrounded her, illuminating her scramble towards the far side of the courtyard. Her determination to flee was little hampered by the pain in her leg, and it wasn’t long before she slipped through the old rusty gate tucked away in the hedge wall.

Polly fled through the forest as fast as she was able, every branch snap and bird call driving her further into the forest. Her snow white sneakers were wisps of ghosts beneath her, the only thing she could see between lightning flashes. Dark shadows stalked her escape and she pushed herself to go further away from the lights behind her. 

The scrapes on her palms, the constant hunger in her belly, the blood streaming down her leg. None of that was enough to stop her. Because if she stopped, she would be found. And if she was found she’d be taken back, a prisoner once more, and put into a solitary cell for months to reflect on what she’d done.

Because that’s what happened to naughty girls in the fortress. Girls who refused to follow the rules. Girls like Mary Nielson who fought back against the orderly’s wandering hands. Girls like Abbey Finn who refused to eat for a month after she’d been forced to give her baby up for adoption. They came out of that cell changed, broken, and defeated, ghosts of what they once were.

And it’s what would happen to her if she was caught.

So she kept moving, one foot in front of the other, hours later. Despite her aching feet and throbbing ankles. Despite the despair carving itself into her soul. Polly walked further than she ever had before. Every moment she feared the grey, ominous prison would appear behind her, a living hell-hound tracking the small drops of blood she left behind as she  
walked.

The small biscuit Polly managed to steal from the cafeteria last week had long since been eaten. She fingered the crumbs in her pocket and wondered if it would have been smarter to have left a bread trail behind her. She’d walked so long and was so tired. Perhaps if she turned back, if she confessed her sins and threw herself on the mercy of the Sisters -  
Underneath, the rough uneven forest floor shifted to a hard, smooth surface still slick with the rain.

Asphalt. She’d made it to a road. She could find her way home.

Only, Polly didn’t know if she’d want to go home again. Whether it would ever be her home again.

The road was as dark as the wood, the yellow striping barely visible by the lightning above. A car would come, she promised herself. It had to. That’s what all the stories said would happen. And even if the stories lied and a car never came, at least now Polly had a road to follow.

The longer she walked, the more her thoughts crowded in on her. If a car happened along, there was no telling what kind of person would be behind the wheel. As many people that might be willing to help a young pregnant teenager, there were just as many, if not more, that would hurt her for their own pleasure. A young girl alone at night in the woods was suspicious enough. 

Her mother had always warned her of the dangers of hitchhiking and accepting rides from strangers. She’d told Polly that anyone could be a serial killer or a cannibal and you could never tell it by looking at them. But her mother had also warned her of the dangers of being kidnapped and stolen away. The only thing she hadn’t warned Polly about was that it might be her own mother having her stolen away.

A animal howl cut through the rain, miles away, but still close enough to turn her skin to gooseflesh and set her heart pounding. Polly set one hand on her stomach, well aware it wasn’t just her life in danger. When the only sound was the rain on the road, when the howl had faded to nothing more than a remembered echo, she began to walk once more.

Her eyes did their best to peer through the darkness. She knew witches and goblins and fae peered back at her as they tried to decide what to do with her. A memory, unbidden and long forgotten, came to her as she walked. Her family around a campfire while her father wove tales of creatures and demons and old hermits who thirsted for blood. They were always eager, he said, for the chance to take bad children back to their lair for a midnight snack. Polly had grown up terrified that if she stepped out of line she’d be whisked away by some ghoul to an underground lair. 

It wasn’t until she was older that she realized what her father’s tales really were. Attempts to scare her into quiet complacency, to be the sweet little girl forever. And she’d chafed under that sort of control. She’d acted out with boys, parties, and popularity. She became the difficult child her mother was forever complaining about.

Perhaps that had been the reason she’d been sent away. The bad, lost child destined to have cramped toes and aching feet from constantly running away from her parents’ expectations. Even now she didn’t know where she was or where she wanted to go. Until Jason, she hadn’t ever thought about where she wanted to end up. Now, Polly knew she wanted to be far, far away from wherever here was.

From a long way off, she thought she heard the sound of a dog baying and prayed that it’s only her imagination. Surely they wouldn’t sic dogs to track down a pregnant woman. Then again, Polly had thought the Sisters’ wouldn’t do a lot of things. Her step quickened as much as the blisters on her feet allowed.

A car had to come along, Polly promised herself. A car with a nice young couple who would drive her to the nearest bus station and provide her with just enough money to call Betty. Or a nice young pastor who would offer her a place to rest and a job cleaning a church until she decided what she was going to do. Or maybe -

A noise caught her attention and she strained to listen. 

There. The whine of a badly abused engine in dire need of a new fan belt and catalytic converter. As it drew closer, the nosy engine brought with it the heavy bass staccato of an ill-used subwoofer. Headlights came around the curve and illuminated the road in front of her. Polly turned to wave only to freeze as the car came straight at her. She braced herself, her fear and fatigue making it impossible to move. 

Brakes squealed and the car fishtailed into the lane opposite of her. The engine whined a single complaint about the sudden stop, and with one last rattle it shuddered to a stop. Impatient, the driver tapped the emergency lights and Polly carefully made her way to the passenger side. The window cranked down to reveal the silhouette of a man, his eyes and teeth illuminated by the dashboard light. Nothing stood out about him or the car besides a faint scent of fresh earth and mildew.

Polly took a deep breath and decided to pin her last hopes on this man. “I need a ride to Riverdale.”

A siren’s roar rose over the sound of the car’s windshield wipers. The man glanced in his rearview mirror and time stretched between them as he thought about it. What was left of her heart beat hard enough to hurt. She didn’t want to get caught after coming this far. She didn’t want to go back.

“Please,” she asked, a tone of desperation in her voice and tears in her eyes. Polly placed a hand on her overly large stomach, hoping that if the man wasn’t moved by her, he’d take pity on her child.

With barely a glance at her stomach, the man reached over to unlock the door. Polly slid in before he could change his mind.

“Buckle up, Blondie,” he said as the sirens drew closer. 

Polly pulled the strap low under her belly. She heard him pop the clutch and slip straight into third. The engine and Polly’s heart stalled a moment, but in no time both roared back to life. The force of the sudden leap forward jerked Polly back into her seat and her hands grasped along the door to find something, anything to hold onto.

Whether they’d lost their pursuers, Polly couldn’t tell from the music that filled the cab. Minutes later they reached the crossroads to Greendale, and she braced herself against the door when he pushed the car even faster. They blasted through the sleepy town’s red lights and stop signs, only to catch the attention of a lurking sheriff. Blue and red lights flashed behind them and the siren was a thin falsetto to the bass of the radio.

The driver caught her eye and grinned, his teeth catching the red from the lights behind them - oh, what large, sharp teeth he had - and suddenly the road ahead of them went dark as pitch. He pulled the emergency brake and spun the steering wheel hard. Polly braced her legs against the floor. Her scream was gobbled up by the pounding music and her stomach threatened to remind her of how little she’d been given for dinner. Like the downhill turn of a roller coaster, the movement was over too quickly to be real. She was thrown into the door as the car straightened itself out on an old dirt road that rattled her bones and clacked her teeth together.

The man cut the music as they sped along, rain on the window the only sound in the cab. Polly shut her eyes against her nausea as they bounced along and didn’t dare open them again until they stopped. When she felt it was safe again, she opened one eye and discovered they’d arrived at a cabin deep in the woods. It was lit by torches and surrounded by lush gardens filled with every color imaginable. 

Without a word, the man stepped out of the car and left towards the cabin. The minute he stepped onto the porch, two middle-aged women, one tall and thin, the other short and round, answered the door. The tall one appeared stern, and even from a distance Polly could see how unhappy she was with him. The other laughed at something he said and patted him on the back. 

All three turned towards the car, and Polly stared down at her hands, unsure of her place in this. Behind her, the car’s hatch lifted. It brought with it a rush of cool, fall air that helped settle her stomach. Something slid along the floor of the car, plastic catching as it went. 

One of the women gasped in joy, and in a high, chipper voice, she said, “Beautiful, oh just lovely Malachi. Absolutely darling, wouldn’t you say, Zelda?”

“Lovely,” came a women’s dry voice. “How did you find him this time of year? Men like him aren’t usually in season until the spring.”

Curiosity overcame her sudden terror, and Polly glanced in the mirror. All three’s attention was focused on whatever it was that lay in the back. The shorter woman leaned forward and plastic rattled together. The sound brought with it a fresh wave of mildew and rotted meat, and Polly barely had time to unbuckle the seatbelt. She threw herself out of the car as bile rushed up her throat. A pair of warm hands rubbed her back, and Polly would have been grateful for such a kindness had she not been so ill.

“Poor thing. It will be alright in the end,” one of the women murmured. She kept up a string of soothing nothings until Polly’s stomach stopped trying to turn her inside out.

“Morning sickness my ass,” the other woman called from behind the car. “Only a man could be so stupid to call it that.”

The woman beside Polly gave her a kind, tired smile. “You’ll have to excuse my sister, dear. She’s a bit crass. How about you come inside and I’ll make you a cup of tea? Your friend will be a while. He’s still got to bring his delivery to the shed out back.”

Polly nodded, her throat burning and stomach uneasy. She leaned against the woman as they walked and half-listened to her wandering words. As they drew closer to the circle of light that surrounded the cabin, the woman noticed her curiosity. 

“It’s a very unique house, been in the family for years. Built right into a thousand year oak tree. Gran always said this was the hanging tree for Greendale and Riverdale back during -“

“Hilda,” the tall woman snapped from the porch, “the girl just puked her guts up. She doesn’t need to listen to your tall tales.” 

She grasped Polly’s elbow and all but dragged her up the steps and into the house. She sat Polly down at an old heavy table, covered in dark stains from years of use, and disappeared into a second door. While Hilda bustled around the kitchen Polly glanced around the cabin. It was rustic and older than she’d expected. A caricature of woodsy life, there were herbs and strings of garlic and peppers littering the walls. Cobwebs found homes between them. Candles of all shapes and sizes were on every surface, some new, some nothing but a puddle of wax. Each was lit and each struggled to light the room against the fluorescent glow of light bulbs above them. The only furniture in the room besides the expected kitchen surfaces were four chairs, the kitchen table, and a cat tree in a far corner, covered in dust from disuse. 

Oddly, the only doors Polly could see where the ones she came in by and the one Zelda disappeared though.

The kettle on the stove began to whistle and Hilda rushed over, hot pad in hand and a Halloween print apron thrown over her clothes. She hummed to herself, the notes broken up by a few words, and she poured the hot water into a squat mug. An herbal stench rose into the air, grass and dirt and moss. The smell alone did more to calm Polly’s stomachs than any of the Sisters’ bitter tasting bismuth potions ever did. Hilda set the cup in front of her, the liquid dark as coffee with forth swirling in a lazy circle, next to a plate of cookies. 

“It’s campanula rapunculus tea, love, mixed with some chamomile and lavender. It always settles my stomach after things go a bit caddywompus,” Hilda said with a motherly smile.

The herb tugged at a long forgotten memory. One where her mother had been going through a natural living phase, one more attempt at reinvention of the self as an attempt to fight against small town live.

Across the kitchen, Zelda reappeared. She scoffed at her sister and snatched a few leaves off another plant hanging from the ceiling. Polly sipped at the tasteless tea as Zelda threw the leaves into a mortar and pestle. She threw the ground leaves into a cup and poured hot water over it. She slammed the mug down in front of Polly, sending liquid sloshing onto the table. 

As Polly watched, the spilt tea shifted from one shape to another before it slipped through the cracks.

“Chamomile and licorice,” she growled. Zelda stormed off through an as yet unobserved third door.

Polly blinked hard to clear her eyes. She stared at the doorway where Zelda had gone. Surely it hasn’t been there before. There’d been the front door with it’s lacy curtains, the door Zelda had gone through, and - Polly glanced down at her tea, then back up to where the pantry door had been before. When she looked again, the door Zelda had left through was still there, patiently tucked against the wall.

Polly rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. Perhaps she was seeing things.

“Don’t mind Zelda, dearie. I’m afraid she’s always been touchy when it comes to things like pregnancy. And strangers. And tea. And, well just about everything I suppose. She’s the pebble in my shoe, the pea in my bed, but she is still my sister. Bound together by blood and family and what not. And two is better than one, as you’ll soon find out,” Hilda said. 

Her face was open, expectant. For what, Polly wasn’t sure, so she picked up one of the cookies and bit into it. The flavor of it was bland and stale, but to Polly it was ambrosia compared to the gruel she’d lived off for the past three months.

“My sister’s my best friend,” Polly offered after another sip of tea.

Hilda looked at her, blue eyes wide. “Such a pity.”

“Why? Do you and Zelda not like -“ Polly held her tongue. She knew better than to assume, but Hilda’s easy openness made her tongue loose. 

Thankfully, Hilda only clicked her tongue and went about cleaning up the kitchen. “She is my friend, but there are many, many times I just want to kill her and bury her out in the garden. I don’t know that I’d call her my best friend, but lately she might be my only friend.”

Hilda continued on about her sister as she moved about, though Polly was only able to catch a few words here and there. For a moment, Polly wondered if Hilda had forgotten she was there. Which was itself a welcome relief. At the Sisters, no one forgot who you were and where you were supposed to be. The ongoing joke among the girls was that the Sisters were nothing more than golems set into motion by Mother Mary Elephant herself.

The more tea she drank, the more her stomach settled. And the more cookies she ate, the hungrier Polly became. While Polly hadn’t had a chance to figure out what this pregnancy meant, for her future or her body, she knew that she hadn’t been getting the food she needed. The Sisters’ believed deprivation of earthly pleasures brought an insight into the soul, but Polly had never wanted a cheeseburger so badly in her life.

A clatter came from outside, and Zelda burst into the room from the opposite wall she’d left through. Malachi caught the door and followed her inside. His voice snapped at Zelda in a tone too low for Polly to hear. In this light he was far different than what she’d imagined. His face was covered in smeared white paint, the space around his eyes dark as coal. Steaks of black meandered down his cheeks, a compliment to the black curls that adorned his head like a crown. He looked like a prince of death sent to collect a debt easily squandered and arduous to pay, or perhaps even Hades arisen from hell to avenge some minor slight.

Dressed head to toe in black leather, someone had punched metal studs everywhere that could be comfortable, and a few places that surely weren’t. Where the metal studs didn’t cover the material, patches were sewn on with a skeletal theme, skulls and bones and -

Polly squinted. Was that a portrait of Oscar Wilde?

She supposed his intention was to frighten people, to bring the latent threat of the different and macabre to onlookers. But for Polly the man looked as if he’d been kicked out of a KISS concert for having set off the metal detector.

Hilda scurried through the door after them, and Polly was left alone at the table. The longer she sat, the heavier her eyelids felt and she lay her head down on the table. Raised voices came from the next room, but they did little to lift her from the fog that rolled over her.

The next time her eyes opened, she was sitting in the car, her head against the window. She was going in reverse, the cabin growing smaller and smaller away from her. Her eyes fought to stay open as she watched with mild bemusement as the cabin swayed up off the ground. Lanterns and plants danced along the eaves as they floated further and further into the sky. The house was taller than the car now. 

When it could rise no forward, the cabin leaned forward. The dancing lanterns lit the bird feet far beneath it. Just before the car went around the curve, the house bounded out of sight. Polly’s eyes closed in the dark and the booming bass rocked her to sleep.

She woke again under stark fluorescent lights, alone in the car. Next to her were gas pumps, and past that was a diner with letters burnt out. A sudden pressure in her low stomach politely reminded her of the tea she drank. With an urgency found only in pregnant women and small dogs, Polly made her way to the bathroom located just inside the front door. The smell of old cooking oil and overcooked fries followed her into the cramped bathroom and did little to cover up the stench of cleaning solvents and human waste. The stall door proclaimed _‘Costanza is a home wreking hore,’_ while the toilet paper dispenser suggested instead that she was _‘a saint inna sinners’ worlde.’_

When Polly entered the diner, she was greeted by the sight of a sheriff seated at a table. She nodded at him, her movements measured and even despite every instinct she had screaming at her to run. Malachi had, thankfully, chosen a booth out of the sheriff’s immediate eye line. His face fell when she sat down across from him.  
“Why do you look so disappointed to see me?”

He shrugged and spread his arms across the back of the booth. “Because I am. I’ve driven that road hundreds of times, and you’re the first person I’ve ever come across. I was hoping all you’d leave behind was your sweater.”

Everyone of a certain age in the tri-county tried to pick up the ghost in the red-sweater. Passed down from generation to generation, it was local legend that if you stopped to pick up a young woman on the side of the road she would disappear the first time you stopped. The only proof of her existence was the red sweater she left behind. 

Now, though, Polly wasn’t so sure it was a ghostly presence wandering the roads. She ran her fingers along the hem of her own red-sweater. 

“Sorry to disappoint. And thank you, for picking me up. I really do appreciate it.”

He nods. It’s a benevolent nod one would expect of a king granting a largesse rather than a man with a lead-foot and an abused car. She wonders what he’s done to gain that sort of confidence, if she should dislike a man who’d willingly pick up runaways. All her life she’d been warned against men like this, beautiful men who didn’t seem to belong to this world. But unlike so many others he hadn’t taken advantage of her situation. Perhaps he was just as lost in the wilderness as she.

“What should I call you?”

She bites her lip as she thinks. Her instinct tells her to lie, to give him a different name. “Polly,” she says without giving it too much thought. 

A commotion comes from the kitchen, and they both look up. A waitress comes through the kitchen doors. Seeing Malachi, she made her way towards them. Stella, according to the name tag. She cracked her gum at him, her hip cocked and aimed. “What’s it now Malachi?”

“Saul in the back?”

Stella frowned, the movement drawing her cat-eye glasses further down her face. “Isn’t he always?”

“Feed her.” He nodded towards Polly. 

Lithe as a cat in leather boots, Malachi slid out of his booth with a brown paper bag. Stella glanced at the sheriff, focused on the paper in front of him, and followed after him. She returned a few minutes later with two plates filled with the greasiest breakfast food Polly had ever seen.

Unsure of where to start, Polly nibbled on a piece of toast. Not satisfied, her stomach growled it’s objection to her hesitation. Soon she’d finished one plate, and had begun on the second. 

Each bite felt like a small rebellion against her captors. The Sisters’ didn’t care whether you were heavy with bastard child or not. Frugality and deprivation was the way to godliness. It was a sin, they said in their sharp voices, to take more than what you needed. When Polly had asked for enough food for her child she’d been slapped across the face and her meals had been cut in half for the next two weeks.

With each bite, the cramps of hunger she’d carried along with her child began to ease up, and Polly vowed once more that she wouldn’t go back to that place.

It wasn’t until she was almost done with the second plate that Malachi came back through, his face wiped clean of makeup. Without it, Polly realized he was only a few years older than her, if that much. When he sat, he went almost vertical, lounging in the vinyl booth as if it were a fainting couch. He studied her as she ate, and Polly met his gaze without fear.

“What’s a good girl like you wandering around the woods at night?” he asked, his attention wandering towards the window behind her.

Polly set a hand on her stomach. The words ‘good girl’ hadn’t applied to her in almost a year. At least, that’s what her father told her every time she broke curfew. “I was looking for my grandmother’s house.”

His lips tilted up over his teeth in a modicum of a smile, one canine longer than the other. In proper light, Polly found under all that makeup he’d been sporting a razor-thin moustache. 

“It’s not often I come across someone who’d accept a ride from someone the cops are after,” he said lightly.

She’d had an inkling about the dangers of this man at the cabin, but now her guard was up. She had questions, but she didn’t dare risk losing her escape to ask. Instead she shoveled another helping of hashbrowns into her mouth. The grease on her plate and the heavy implications in his words twisted her stomach after the light fare she’d grown used to at the Sisters’.

“What makes you think they weren’t after me?”

His grin was full this time, and the eyeliner he’d artfully missed was a sharp contrast to his bone white teeth, a study in chiaroscuro and vanity. 

Like an actor on stage given his cue, the sheriff stood. He tossed a few bills on the table only to saunter towards them. Polly’s grip on her fork tightened and she held her breath. Malachi didn’t move. His eyes followed the sheriff as a lion would a lamb. 

The sheriff looked between them while his tongue played along his cheek. “You two from around here?” 

His hand was on his gun, and Polly forced herself to keep eating. He stared a little too hard, and the pieces of her broken heart grew wings. She smiled at him, the same soft, disarming smile she put on for her teachers or Jason’s overly handsy friends. Gentle, non-confrontational. Ever the image of the good girl just trying to do right. On impulse, she lay a hand over Malachi’s and gave it a squeeze.

“Just passing through, sir,” Malachi said. He flipped his hand over to lace his fingers through hers. His skin was ice cold, rough in patches and smooth in others. It’s a hand much different than Jason’s. His was always warm and smooth when it ran across her skin.

“Well maybe you can help me then, son. I’m looking for a runaway,” the sheriff said. He towered over Polly, his eyes narrowed. “Her name’s Polly Cooper, and she’s run away from a housing facility not far from her. People are very worried about her. She’s not mentally sound, and people are afraid she’ll hurt the baby.”

Polly bit her tongue as anger flashed through her fear. She was as sound as she’d ever been, maybe even more so with the clarity incarceration brought her. And she’d never do anything to hurt her child.

“We don’t know anyone by that name,” Malachi said. The sheriff turned his attention to him and Polly took a deep breath. She’d never been able to lie convincingly. “But if you tell us what she looks like, we can keep an eye out for you.”

The sheriff straightened and set his other hand on his belt. “She’s 17, blonde with blue eyes. About so tall -“ he held up a hand to his shoulders, “and about six months pregnant. Sound familiar?”

Polly forced a smile and shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t recall seeing anyone like that. Can you, sweetie?”

A yell came from the kitchen and a pot crashed to the ground. Something like a gunshot went off, and they all flinched. The sheriff fixed them with a rough look. “Stay here, we’re not done.”

He disappeared through the kitchen doors, and the walls around them creep ever closer. Adrenaline ran through her veins, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I can’t go back there, I won’t,” she whispered. Her voice is bordering on hysterical, and the air around her has disappeared. “I can’t -“

Malachi nodded and took her hand in his, eerily calm in this storm that was rising around them. The more she slipped closer to the edge the steadier he became, a spirit who fed on chaos and panic. He helped her to her feet and tugged her to the car. 

The only part of her that is calm wondered whether the meal was paid for, or whether she’d be adding a dine and dash to her long list of sins and crimes. But the larger part, the more important part, is trying to figure out how to run as far away as possible. 

Because if she can’t run away from this place, she’ll soon be bundled up in a different car, trapped behind caged windows once more.

He held the car door open, and Polly took a seat, her breaths shallow, quick gasps. Malachi was quick around the car, the engine cranked as soon as he’d sat down. The engine protested and groaned, but turned over by what felt like divine grace. Within moments they were flying down the road again, bass thumping through her bones. Polly couldn’t make out a lyric or a tune. In her frazzled state each song sounded like the last, all a cacophony of animals singing off-tune and out of sync only the musicians of Breman could appreciate.

Malachi shifted to a high gear as the engine began to scream, and it lurched, a stall in their high speed escape. 

“You’re stripping the gears,” she yelled.

He turned towards her, a shadow reaching out in the darkness to turn off the music. “What?”

“You’re stripping the gears. You’ll need to replace the clutch soon if you keep that up.”

He chuckled and turned back to the road. “You sound just like Roach.”

“Whoever that is, he’s right. And you’ll need to replace your hydraulic lifter and the catalytic converter soon, otherwise you’ll have to rebuild the engine ground up.”

“How’d you know so much about cars, anyways?”

Polly pursed her lips, stopping herself from asking why he didn’t. “My father was into cars. It was his thing to do with my little sister, but I picked up a few things from him.” 

And from Jason, who wanted to make sure she was able to take care of herself. She’d learned more from him than her father. Hal wanted her to be the perfect little princess. Ballet, skating, baking. And so he’d gravitated towards Betty to teach her all the real things, all the useful things. How to change a tire, how to fix a toilet. And Betty had been so intent on rebelling against their mother that she took in all she could from Hal, even those things that weren’t so helpful.

When Polly wanted to learn, Hal chuckled and patted her on the head. He assured her it wasn’t something she’d be interested in. He’d treated her like the child he still thought she was, the child he still wanted her to be. Maybe that’s why he was so angry when he’d found out she was pregnant. Maybe it was the thought of his baby girl all grown up.

Or maybe he just didn’t like her.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence. Malachi didn’t move to turn the radio back on, and Polly didn’t offer any more conversation.

Almost an hour later, they stopped in front of a low, dilapidated house. It’s windows were boarded up, and weak light, as if lit by candles, streamed through the boards.  
Malachi stepped out, and Polly followed. 

“Where are we?” she asked, though she didn’t care enough for the answer. Her feet were swollen and her body ached. The longer she stood, the heavier her head while her sight grew dim. She was exhausted, through and through, and could have slept anywhere. On top of a thousand mattresses or in the ashes of a fireplace, the only thing she wished for was a dark, safe space. He could lead her into the depths of hell, away from the light and life above, and she would willingly follow him for a few hours of quiet calm.

He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, and he swept into a low bow. “Welcome to the House of Charnel.”


End file.
